Thinking back on a time where I felt fully comfortable in my own skin is difficult to say. What is comfort? How much change must one go through to become comfortable? Where does the zone of comfortability begin? How long does it last? Like the sting of a bee or the spark of a firefly, they come and go. The only thing constant in nature, is change; and there is no morality in nature. What once was alive, eventually dies. Now, I don’t consider myself to be a pessimist by any means, but hear me out. Living in a home with handicapped siblings, recovering from cancer, while vowing to your father that one day you will be the sole care taker of his children once his time on Earth expires, is anything but your typical “follow your dreams” shpiel or leave your “comfort zone” speech in which I am about to share with you. This was a special case. Little behold, I can recall three occurences where I plowed through change in hopes of becoming comfortable with a better resolution for my well-being and what seemed to be at the time, a dim-lit future; only to find myself right back where I started. Except once.

It was October 2022, I was an Assistant Residential Manager in upstate New York, aiding and caring for disabled adults in a residential home. There were 5 residential homes I monitored, with a total of 25 residents. Each home had its unique group of individuals. All having completely different disabilities and health related issues. The company was low on staff with a high turnover rate, the job is anything but a job to me. Afterall, this was all I’ve ever known. For most people it was a job and certainly, not an easy one. The more people left or didn’t show up for their shift, the longer I stayed. On my days off, I worked as a Direct Support Professional for my disabled siblings and did construction work on a house. My father bought a beat down home on a nice piece of land with a backyard that overlooked a golf course with a small pond. He decided he was going to bring down the house and start from scratch. I had been working on this newly renovated home project for 3 months, while balancing my work life at the residential homes, work life with my siblings, and balancing a personal life of my own. One evening mid-Fall after coming home from work, my father proposed an idea to me, which seemed impossible to refuse. He said, “Would you like to live in this house for the rest of your life with no bills? You can go to work full time, continue working hours with your siblings, and one day when the time comes, you can take care of them. Out of all the other kids, they love you most, you know that.” He wasn’t wrong, I had spent 21 years of my life changing diapers, bathing them, feeding them, and spending time with them, while the rest of my siblings went off to college, built romantic relationships and created a life of their own. “Absolutely!” I said to my father, there was no question or doubt about it that a future home I didn’t have to purchase, with no bills to pay, while continuing a full time job would be the American Dream. The following week, I was finishing the interior painting of the living room and kitchen in my soon-to-be home, and decided to take a break. I walked to the master bedroom and glanced out the window, watching the cars drive by until there was nothing but silence. I closed my eyes, and breathed in deeply with my head against the wall. By the time I opened my eyes, it hit me. The harsh reality of missing out on a life of my own. A life where I can choose to do anything I want and become what I want, without the guilt, shame, or resentment of leaving, hit me dead in the face. The harsh reality that I was not and have not been living a life of my own, I was living someone else’s.

It was Thanksgiving 2022, I was spending the holiday at my personal favorite residential home out of the 5. I prepared chicken parmesagn with spaghetti and meatballs, put the Andy Griffin Show on in the living room after supper and placed everyone to bed. Once my shift was over, I arrived home at about 10:30pm for my family’s leftovers in the fridge and hung out with my siblings in the computer room where they watched tv and ate their snacks before going to bed. I felt the walls were caving in around me and nothing was the same anymore. My mind and heart both battled against each other, until there was nothing left for me to do besides “bleed on paper,” a term my creative writing teacher in high school used to say when certain feelings are too hard to face or express by mouth, put it on paper. Well, I did. Then, I sent it out to 10 childhood heroes asking for their help. This was my first true, nervous and mental breakdown. But man, did writing all of those emotions and personal memories down on paper make me feel good and so relieved after. The next morning, I woke up and continued the same routine at work, followed by coming home and hanging out with my siblings in the computer room. Once I got to the computer room, my oldest sibling approached me and said, “Stupid! Stupid!” I responded to him with confusion and fear, “What are you talking about?” Seconds after, my father walked into the computer room and asked to speak with me in the kitchen. My heart stopped and as strange as it sounds, I could feel my face turn white. I remembered thinking to myself, “God, there is just no way he knows about the letter. It’s impossible!” Well, it would have been impossible if my father wasn’t such a control freak with the abilities to hack into my email account. There it was, the 8 page letter printed, laying flat on the kitchen table next to his root beer float and Medjugorje prayer cards. He looked at me and said, “Everything you wrote is a lie! I don’t want you in this house anymore. If you want to go, go!”

I spent 3 1/2 weeks at my friend’s house while contemplating different ways and scenarios to make peace with my father, while also forgiving him for invading my privacy. The two appeared to be impossible, my name was already tossed in the mud throughout the entire family. My letter was nothing but a joke, my feelings were received as anything but valid, and any words that left my lips was a lie and bitter attempt to seek attention. The car he had given me, was politely returned, and I was forbidden to step foot on his property or receive any more than “two trips worth with the pick-up truck” for the rest of my belongings. The rest, he donated to the Salvation Army, or so he says. By mid-day on December 25th, I had already been 14 beers deep trapped in the spare bedroom of my friend’s house, in and out of sleep and tears. The morning after, I decided to make a decision that would change my life forever. I called my mom and asked to live with her for a while to start over, start new. Without hesitation, she drove from Florida to New York, picked me up in a rental van with all of my things and brought me someplace safe, her home. I was 4 years old the last time I lived with my mother, a lot happened. None of it being her fault in my opinion, but that’s another story. Fast forward ten months later, I’ve landed a position in the hospitality industry, becoming Operations Manager next week, still no contact with my father or siblings. After countless nights of tears on the pillow case, wondering if what I shared with the world was a good thing or a bad thing, and if I was the villain in my family’s eyes, I finally learned to let go. A comfort zone isn’t always comfortable, but habitual. Sometimes, leaving your comfort zone isn’t something one plans or sets out to do, it is simply pushed or eagerly encouraged by the Universe and everything around you. The chapter of a life without guilt, shame or resentment for leaving, was here. All that once appeared to be a dim-lit future and a nightmare away, is now a distant memory. If I had not left or taken the risk of losing my vehicle, future “home,” and family members from a single letter, I would have ended back where I always started. Living someone else’s life.